Free The Lightkeeper's Wife by Karen Viggers

who go south are mostly young and get snapped up by the enthusiastic young testosterone that moves quicker than old bulls like Bazza; the ship’s hardly out of Hobart and it’s happening. If the beer wasn’t free down there, Bazza says he’d get sick watching it all. No, he says, you wouldn’t want to let your wife or girlfriend go south without you. They’re all into it, like a bunch of animals.
    That’s what we are really, I tell him. Animals. Even though we spend a lot of time trying to hide it. It’s biology; people can’t help themselves. And what do you expect when you put a group of men and women together in a ship for close to five weeks? That’s how long it takes to reach Davis Station from Hobart: seven days to the ice and then another two or three weeks grinding west through the pack. The ship is laden with cargo for resupplying whichever station you’re heading to, and the crew just wants to make it through the big seas as fast as they can. In the pack, the ice damps down the swell. One trip, the ship was only three days out of Hobart in heavy seas when one of the choppers broke loose in the heli hangar. All the helicopters were smashed to pieces and they had to turn the ship and back rustle up some other choppers. Just like that. The antdiv has money at its fingertips. Who else could summon up a couple more helicopters in a few days? They couldn’t drop off staff or do resupply without them—especially on those voyages early in the season, when the sea ice is still thick and the ship can’t get into station.
    But things are starting to change down there now. They’ve built a runway at Casey Station so they can fly people in. The ship’s still needed to deliver supplies and gear, but the isolation is reducing. At least that’s what they say. But I wonder about it; they can’t fly people down unless the weather’s perfect. And how many perfect days do you get in Antarctica? Especially in spring when everybody wants to get there.
    Bazza glances at his watch. ‘Let’s go down to the cafeteria and get some chips. And a pie or something,’ he says.
    I follow him out of the shed, towards the main building. ‘Where’s Jess?’ he asks.
    ‘In the car.’
    ‘Got the windows down?
    ‘Of course, I always leave the windows down.’
    ‘I don’t like to see a dog suffer. And you’re such a dopey bugger sometimes.’
    ‘I always look after my dog.’
    Bazza nods. ‘Just checking, you dreamer.’
    ‘You set me off, Bazza. Pushing me to go south again.’
    ‘Yeah, I know it. Bloody southland.’
    We’re all just a breath away from memories.
    We enter the building and walk down a long grey corridor to the cafeteria. It’s afternoon tea time and there are plenty of people sitting down with a cuppa or a snack. I used to know most of them. Some of the old guard have been here forever. They’ve done their stints down south, and now they are office-bound, directing the field staff who go in their place. But many of the young ones are transient. They last a few trips to Antarctica and then they move on. If you don’t escape, you’re trapped by it. Ice in your veins.
    Bazza buys a couple of pies and we sit down at a table. There’s a dismembered newspaper on the table and some flyers for a seminar on Wednesday night: ‘The ecology of Adelie penguins’ by Emma Sutton.
    Bazza sees me looking at the flyer. ‘Why don’t you go?’ he says. ‘You’re into penguins.’
    I do love penguins, especially Adelies. They’re rugged little black and white nuggets, solid balls of muscle. You don’t want to mess with one unless you know what you’re doing. They can draw blood with their beaks or the leading edge of a well-placed flipper. It’s amazing how they can swim from somewhere out in the endless Southern Ocean to the ice edge and then waddle over miles of ice to return to their breeding colony—the same island they bred on the previous year. I always wonder how they find their way back each